Moods
shall see the Giver in the gift, and when He calls can answer cheerfully
'Lord here am I.'"
It _was_ a rare moment, and in it Moor for the first time clearly saw
the desire and design of his friend's life; saw it because it was
accomplished, and for the instant Adam Warwick was what he aspired to
be. A goodly man, whose stalwart body seemed a fit home for a strong
soul, wise with the wisdom of a deep experience, genial with the virtues
of an upright life, devout with that humble yet valiant piety which
comes through hard-won victories over "the world, the flesh, and the
devil." Despite the hope that warmed his heart, Moor felt poor beside
him, as a new reverence warmed the old affection. His face showed it
though he did not speak, and Warwick laid an arm about his shoulders as
he had often done of late when they were alone, drawing him gently on
again, as he said, with a touch of playfulness to set both at ease--
"Tell me your plans, 'my cup of gold,' and let me lend a hand toward
filling you brimful of happiness. You are going home?"
"At once; you also."
"Is it best?"
"Yes; you came for me, I stay for you, and Sylvia waits for both."
"She says nothing of me in this short, sweet note of hers;" and Warwick
smoothed it carefully in his large hand, eyeing it as if he wished there
were some little word for him.
"True, but in the few letters she has written there always comes a
message to you, though you never write a line; nor would you go to her
now had she sent for you alone; she knew that, and sends for me, sure
that you will follow."
"Being a woman she cannot quite forgive me for loving her too well to
make her miserable. Dear soul, she will never know how much it cost me,
but I knew that my only safety lay in flight. Tell her so a long while
hence."
"You shall do it yourself, for you are coming home with me."
"What to do there?"
"All you ever did; walk up and down the face of the earth, waxing in
power and virtue, and coming often to us when we get fairly back into
our former ways, for you are still the house friend."
"I was wondering, as I walked here, what my next summons would be, when
lo, you came. Go on, I'll follow you; one could hardly have a better
guide."
"You are sure you are able, Adam?"
"Shall I uproot a tree or fling you over the wall to convince you, you
motherly body? I am nearly whole again, and a breath of sea air will
complete the cure. Let me cover my head, say farewell to the good
Sisters, and I shall be glad to slip away without further
demonstrations from the volcanoes below there."
Laying one hand on the low wall, Warwick vaulted over with a backward
glance at Moor, who followed to the gateway, there to wait till the
adieux were over. Very brief they were, and presently Warwick
reappeared, evidently touched yet ill-pleased at something, for he both
smiled and frowned as he paused on the threshold as if loth to go. A
little white goat came skipping from the orchard, and seeing the
stranger took refuge at Warwick's knee. The act of the creature seemed
to suggest a thought to the man. Pulling off the gay handkerchief some
grateful woman had knotted round his neck, he fastened it about the
goat's, having secured something in one end, then rose as if content.
"What are you doing?" called Moor, wondering at this arrangement.
"Widening the narrow entrance into heaven set apart for rich men unless
they leave their substance behind, as I am trying to do. The kind
creatures cannot refuse it now; so trot away to your mistress, little
Nanna, and tell no tales as you go."
As the goat went tapping up the steps a stir within announced the
dreaded demonstration. Warwick did not seem to hear it; he stood looking
far across the trampled plain and ruined town toward the mountains
shining white against the deep Italian sky. A rapt, far-reaching look,
as if he saw beyond the purple wall, and seeing forgot the present in
some vision of the future.
"Come, Adam! I am waiting."
His eye came back, the lost look passed, and cheerily he answered--
"I am ready."
A fortnight later in that dark hour before the dawn, with a murky sky
above them, a hungry sea below them, the two stood together the last to
leave a sinking ship.
"Room for one more, choose quick!" shouted a hoarse voice from the boat
tossing underneath, freighted to the water's edge with trembling lives.
"Go, Geoffrey, Sylvia is waiting."
"Not without you, Adam."
"But you are exhausted; I can bear a rough hour better than yourself,
and morning will bring help."
"It may not. Go, I am the lesser loss."
"What folly! I will force you to it; steady there, he is coming."
"Push off, I am _not_ coming."
In times like that, few pause for pity or persuasion; the instinct of
self-preservation rules supreme, and each is for himself, except those
in whom love of another is stronger than love of life. Even while the
friends generously contended the boat was swept away, and they were left
alone in the deserted ship, swiftly making its last voyage downward.
Spent with a day of intense excitement, and sick with hope deferred,
Moor leaned on Warwick, feeling that it was adding bitterness to death
to die in sight of shore. But Warwick never knew despair; passive
submission was not in his power while anything remained to do or dare,
and even then he did not cease to hope. It was certain death to linger
there; other boats less heavily laden had put off before, and might
drift across their track; wreckers waiting on the shore might hear and
help; at least it were better to die bravely and not "strike sail to a
fear." About his waist still hung a fragment of the rope which had
lowered more than one baby to its mother's arms; before them the
shattered taffrail rose and fell as the waves beat over it. Wrenching a
spar away he lashed Moor to it, explaining his purpose as he worked.
There was only rope enough for one, and in the darkness Moor believed
that Warwick had taken equal precautions for himself.
"Now Geoffrey your hand, and when the next wave ebbs let us follow it.
If we are parted and you see her first tell her I remembered, and give
her this."
In the black night with only Heaven to see them the men kissed tenderly
as women, then hand in hand sprang out into the sea. Drenched and
blinded they struggled up after the first plunge, and struck out for the
shore, guided by the thunder of the surf they had listened to for twelve
long hours, as it broke against the beach, and brought no help on its
receding billows. Soon Warwick was the only one who struggled, for
Moor's strength was gone, and he clung half conscious to the spar,
tossing from wave to wave, a piteous plaything for the sea.
"I see a light!--they must take you in--hold fast, I'll save you for the
little wife at home."
Moor heard but two words, "wife" and "home;" strained his dim eyes to
see the light, spent his last grain of strength to reach it, and in the
act lost consciousness, whispering--"She will thank you," as his head
fell against Warwick's breast and lay there, heavy and still. Lifting
himself above the spar, Adam lent the full power of his voice to the
shout he sent ringing through the storm. He did not call in vain, a
friendly wind took the cry to human ears, a relenting wave swept them
within the reach of human aid, and the boat's crew, pausing
involuntarily, saw a hand clutch the suspended oar, a face flash up from
the black water, and heard a breathless voice issue the command--
"Take in this man! he saved you for your wives, save him for his."
One resolute will can sway a panic-stricken multitude; it did so then.
The boat was rocking in the long swell of the sea; a moment and the
coming wave would sweep them far apart. A woman sobbed, and as if moved
by one impulse four sturdy arms clutched and drew Moor in. While
loosening his friend Warwick had forgotten himself, and the spar was
gone. He knew it, but the rest believed that they left the strong man a
chance of life equal to their own in that overladen boat. Yet in the
memories of all who caught that last glimpse of him there long remained
the recollection of a dauntless face floating out into the night, a
steady voice calling through the gale, "A good voyage, comrades!" as he
turned away to enter port before them.
Wide was the sea and pitiless the storm, but neither could dismay the
unconquerable spirit of the man who fought against the elements as
bravely as if they were adversaries of mortal mould, and might be
vanquished in the end. But it was not to be; soon he felt it, accepted
it, turned his face upward toward the sky, where one star shone, and
when Death whispered "Come!" answered as cheerily as to that other
friend, "I am ready." Then with a parting thought for the man he had
saved, the woman he had loved, the promise he had kept, a great and
tender heart went down into the sea.
* * * * *
Sometimes the Sculptor, whose workshop is the world, fuses many metals
and casts a noble statue; leaves it for humanity to criticise, and when
time has mellowed both beauties and blemishes, removes it to that inner
studio, there to be carved in enduring marble.
Adam Warwick was such an one; with much alloy and many flaws; but
beneath all defects the Master's eye saw the grand lines that were to
serve as models for the perfect man, and when the design had passed
through all necessary processes,--the mould of clay, the furnace fire,
the test of time,--He washed the dust away, and pronounced it ready for
the marble.
CHAPTER XXI.
OUT OF THE SHADOW.
They had been together for an hour, the husband and the wife. The first
excitement was now over, and Sylvia stood behind him tearless and
tranquil, while Moor, looking like a man out of whom the sea had
drenched both strength and spirit, leaned his weary head against her,
trying to accept the great loss, enjoy the great gain which had befallen
him. Hitherto all their talk had been of Warwick, and as Moor concluded
the history of the months so tragically ended, for the first time he
ventured to express wonder at the calmness with which his hearer
received the sad story.
"How quietly you listen to words which it wrings my heart to utter. Have
you wept your tears dry, or do you still cling to hope?"
"No, I feel that we shall never see him any more; but I have no desire
to weep, for tears and lamentations do not belong to him. He died a
beautiful, a noble death; the sea is a fitting grave for him, and it is
pleasant to think of him asleep there, quiet at last."
"I cannot feel so; I find it hard to think of him as dead; he was so
full of life, so fit to live."
"And therefore fit to die. Imagine him as I do, enjoying the larger life
he longed for, and growing to be the strong, sweet soul whose
foreshadowing we saw and loved so here."
"Sylvia, I have told you of the beautiful change which befell him in
those last days, and now I see the same in you. Are you, too, about to
leave me when I have just recovered you?"
"I shall stay with you all my life."
"Then Adam was less to you than you believed, and I am more?"
"Nothing is changed. Adam is all he ever was to me, you are all you ever
can be; but I--"
"Then why send for me? Why say you will stay with me all your life?
Sylvia, for God's sake, let there be no more delusion or deceit!"
"Never again! I will tell you; I meant to do it at once, but it is so
hard--"
She turned her face away, and for a moment neither stirred. Then drawing
his head to its former resting-place she touched it very tenderly,
seeing how many white threads shone among the brown; and as her hand
went to and fro with an inexpressibly soothing gesture, she said, in a
tone whose quietude controlled his agitation like a spell--